fifteen texts
by mmchale
Summary: Based on "15 Texts I Almost Sent You", a tumblr post. 15 texts Kate nearly sent Castle. Set sometime in the future. A/U?
1. Chapter 1

_I left my favorite pair of underwear at your house. I know your mother hates me, can I come pick them up?  
[delete]_

* * *

His mother pulls a pair of underwear from the nearly empty dryer and holds them up in front of her, fingers just pinching two corners. They're navy blue boy shorts with a thick, lace waist band. God knows they're far too petite to fit over her hips, and, well, she hasn't done Alexis' laundry at least two years.

Swinging them on her right forefinger, she leans against the dark wooden doorway of his office where he's been steadily typing for the past few hours.

"Can I help you?" he hears the floor creak with her footsteps and doesn't even look up when he notices her presence. He strikes the keys at a remarkably even pace and keeps his slightly slouched posture. His back must hurt, she thinks, the way he sits like that for hours a day with his shoulders bent at a steep arch. When she doesn't respond, he lifts his eyes. His shoulders and spine stay curved.

She tosses the panties and they land square on his keyboard. F and J peek out from underneath the lace. On her way out, she spies a photo on his bookshelf. It's about two years old; it must be freezing, they have red noses and snowflakes on their eyelashes, but they're grinning like fools regardless. It's an absolutely adorable picture of the two of them. But, she thinks, he doesn't need to be keeping these kinds of things. It's only clutter now. "Don't you think it's time to get rid of this one, kiddo?" she picks up the frame and turns it over slowly a few times before setting it back on the shelf.

He gives a quiet _hmph_ in return. He keeps a lot of heartbreak in that office. Rejection letters, books that didn't sell, both of his divorce files, and of course, numerous photographs. "You've never hated Meredith or Gina this much." he blows out the the words with a small amount of disdain, shoves the underwear aside, and cracks his knuckles, trying to regain focus. His back straightens, slouches, then straightens again as his mother begins speaking.

"Neither of them hurt you that much. No, Katherine... What Katherine did went beyond hurting you, Richard. You're so wrapped up in your own heartbreak, you just—" she tsks. "For someone who makes half his living observing people, you're certainly self absorbed. How do you think your daughter felt having another woman walk out of her life? And not just another one, the first one she thought she could count on. And god knows that girl is doing just fine, but... Why would you knowingly keep someone so reckless in our lives, hm? Just a little consideration for how your relationships affect us, use your head or something."

He's a little shocked. Because while she's completely outspoken, harsh... Harsh is something very, very different. She's not harsh. Outspoken, but so... Even-tempered. Collected. But then again, they've all turned a little sour, he supposes. None of them took the break up well. "You loved her too if I'm not mistaken."

"Past tense." she sighs and takes one more look between him and the overflowing bookshelf. "Get rid of the photo, Richard. Move on a little bit."

* * *

Her right thumb hovers cautiously over the send button, her phone shakes in her hand. But to be honest, she's not even sure if she cares about the underwear all that much. Oh, but what she wouldn't give to stand in his doorway for just a second and see something in his bright blue eyes. For that, for that alone, she cares more than she ever thought she would about a damn pair of underwear.

She remembers the first time she wore when they were together. They were comfy and casual and already kind of worn out, but they hugged her hips in just the right way and she thought they looked sexy. He thought they looked sexy.

But bright blue eyes aren't what she would see if she went over to his loft now. Instead, his eyes would be a dull gray-blue, and he'd be sad and sunken and sore. She pictures him hunched over his laptop with an expression that's more of a frown than a smile and she thinks it over again. Maybe she really doesn't want to see him. She doesn't want to see the heartbreak she caused or how she completely disappointed his family with her course of actions. She screwed up her place in a family she thought she was able to call her own. Certainly they don't think of her as family now. And she's completely unsure of whether or not she wants to face the man who started the latest Nikki Heat with_ to KB: I loved you. _She never thought a tense, grammar of all things, could drive such a stake into her heart. No, she doesn't think she can face that.

She presses the small 'x' above the return button and the letters quickly erase them selves, disappearing in the opposite order in which she typed them. Individual letters clear first, followed by entire words. She lifts her thumb from the touch screen and within a minute, the screen dims. She has to remind herself to breathe.

_In, out._

She drops her phone onto her dresser and falls back onto her bed, the comforter _poofs_ and wrinkles beneath her head. She can't remember the last time she spent this many consecutive days in her own apartment. It feels... Different. Emptier. Less homey. There are no photos of the two of them, no little souvenirs, nothing that's _them_.

She closes her eyes.

_In, out. In, out. In, out._

* * *

_a/n: Oy, this needs major help. TBC?  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_It's been almost a month and I still miss you like a fucking limb.  
[delete]_

* * *

There were days toward the last month or so of their relationship when he had stopped coming to the precinct and she had no idea what the fuck they were. There were days when she would show up in front of his door, long after Martha had gone to sleep (and hours after both of them should have been asleep), in nothing but a trench coat, bra, and heels. It was bold and sexy and _completely_ not them but hey, she didn't know what the fuck they were anyway so why the hell not.

She'd slam the door shut with her back, their hands would be all over each other and her coat and heels would be on the dark wood floor with in seconds. Then they'd just barely make it to the bedroom; he'd press hot, wet kisses to places with a pressure that would make her eyes roll back and her hips buck up and _fuck, Castle_, and it's a wonder they never woke up his mother. (Or so they thought.)

It all felt very _Pretty Woman_. Of course, she wasn't a prostitute, but everything was just physical, barely intimate. Then they'd retire to separate sides of the bed and the sounds of a wide awake New York and the soft hum of his air conditioner would send her into a light sleep.

Something silly would wake her up a few hours later, she'd gather her things, slip silently out of his loft, and they wouldn't talk to each other for at least another week. And even when they finally did, it wasn't exactly what she would define as talking.

That's not really what she misses though. She misses the days before; when it didn't have to be well after midnight before she could see him without completely hating herself. Not that she didn't hate herself after midnight either. But it was somewhat easier with the lights off and him inside of her. Before, there were days when she would get caught up in intensely competitive games of Scrabble or Monopoly with Martha and Alexis and he would come over with a tray of four piping hot chocolates topped with mini mountains of whipped cream and small chocolate chips. _That_ was them.

Then Alexis would head back to campus, Martha would go to the acting studio, and she'd curl up against him with the latest Alex Cross book. They'd quarrel lightly about it, grinning the whole time, and it would end, far more often than not, with them sweaty and satisfied and still smiling with James Patterson, spine bent and pages wrinkled against the ground, long forgotten in a corner.

That's what she misses. She'd give up hot and angry in a quick, irregular heartbeat if it meant endless days of Scrabble, hot chocolate, and fighting over James Patterson.

But she fucked up board games and hot chocolate and Alex Cross, so she settled. Anyone would. Or at least that's what she tells herself. She's so close to losing him. It's like they're tied together by an invisible string that's getting so thin in the middle it could snap in an instant. Her pulling on it isn't helping and its threads keep fraying, but it's better than untying themselves completely. She thinks.

The boys ask her where he's been, and she gets uncomfortable. They feel like they haven't seen him in months, she mumbles something along the lines of _how would I know?_ They look at her as if something's wrong, and she turns to hide in the break room. She buries her face in a steaming espresso mug that's filled to the brim with dark, strong caffeine that will hopefully help her drag through the day, and watches through the thin slits between the window blinds as Ryan tries out the most awful Castle impression she thinks she's ever seen.

Then, about three days after the last day, he didn't answer the door. She sunk to the ground outside the door to his loft in her trench coat, bra, and heels and waited for over an hour, hoping that he'd come home from a late night drug store run or something and pin her up against the wall.

But he didn't. She tries to figure out whether or not her metaphorical string snapped, or if he'd simply untied himself. She supposes she can't blame him if he did.

And she's so ready to type up the memory; to write a paragraph detailing the days of board games and cocoa. Not to mention what they'd do with the whipped cream afterwards. She imagines her mood improving as _delivered _turns to _read at_ and her stomach turns because she can almost see the three small dots in the bottom corner of the screen.

He'd reply with something along the lines of how he felt the same way, how he needed her like he needed his right hand and she'd show up and they'd go slow and loving and she'd be far more satisfied that hot and angry has ever and will ever leave her.

Then she thinks about typing up something a little shorter, a little angrier, something that relates to them just a little more recently. But then she remembers that that's not actually them. And that she doesn't miss him like a fucking limb, she misses him far more than that.

And then there's also the reality of things: her phone remains abandoned in the corner. She opens a case file she stole from the precinct and prays that the busy work will numb the pain. It's a shitty reality.

He probably has his read receipts off now anyways.

* * *

_a/n: I'm trying not to abandon this, I swear.  
_


End file.
